


Co-Miseration & Co-Conspiracies

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunkenness, Fathers & Sons, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-17
Updated: 2007-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's gone.  All that's left is to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Co-Miseration

**Author's Note:**

> (I do know that's not how commiseration is spelled, but artistic sentiment, okay? I was doing something there.)

John's had his share of benders. Probably more than his share, if he stops to think about it, which he really doesn't. Introspection is a trap, one that dulls the mind and heart and hands with the chains of regret and inaction. He has to keep moving forward, he is a hunter, not a gatherer and hunters move in straight lines.

His sons are hunters too, as good as he could make them, and maybe that's why, when Dean comes back after three days, he doesn't beat the tar out of him. Not that he ever really would, but the anger—born of worry—pulses red and sullen in his forebrain when the motel door opens and Dean almost falls over himself staggering through.

He doesn't need to be especially gifted to smell the reek coming off of Dean; he _stinks_ of hard, stale liquor and unknown filth and he looks like he's been sleeping in alleys and fighting with wild dogs. John doesn't dismiss the possibility.

"Sir," Dean says, managing an ironic and half-ass salute that almost has John wanting to smack him after all. "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Where've you been, Dean?" John asks quietly. He knows what this is about, knows that Dean has probably been drinking himself senseless in every dive bar the city has to offer.

The tone of John's voice seems to slice through a little of Dean's fug, and the silly grin falls off his face as his hand drops back to his side. Dean sways a little and John wonders if Dean's more than just blotto drunk. Hard to tell beneath the frowst of _bar_.

"Out," Dean answers softly. "Just…" His hand waves vaguely. "Out."

"You didn't call."

Dean swallows, a thick sound that almost turns John's stomach and he's only had the one beer. "I know. I'm sorry, sir."

"Dean, what am I going to do with you?" John lets some of the edge show in his voice. "You can't…you can't just go and disappear. It's dangerous out there."

"Yes. I know that. I'm sorry." 

Wearily, John waves a hand at him. "Go get cleaned up," he says. "I got a line on a job out in Branson. I want wheels down in thirty, you got me?"

Still rocking unsteadily, Dean nods and answers promptly. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

He should be harder on Dean, he knows. It's true he's young but what they do isn't play and he doesn't have time for Dean to go off half-cocked just because he misses his brother. Hell, he misses Sammy too. 

Halfway to the bathroom, Dean's shuffle becomes a trot, and John's been through enough pub crawls of his own to know what's coming next. Dean hits the toilet in a frantic scurry of plastic and then groans loudly, followed by the ugly wet sound of puke.

John sighs and gets up from his chair. Goes into the bathroom and crouches next to Dean, rubbing one broad hand soothingly along the line of Dean's spine, just like Mary had done, when they'd been sick. "It's all right, Dean," he says. "Just get it all out."

Dean doesn't say anything, hands white-knuckled on the porcelain rim and racked with heaves and shudders. 

John keeps murmuring, random nonsense and soothing gibber, and ignores it when Dean's heaving turns into sobs.


	2. Co-Conspiracies

_You have to get up_ , Dean reminds himself. _Dad said 'wheels down in thirty'. You have to get up._

It's hard, though, his belly still roiling and bubbling, lungs shredded and his nose thick with snot. His eyes burn and he feels scalded through with shame that he let himself break down far enough to cry. Especially in front of the old man. 

Still hunched over the toilet, limp and greasy head resting on his bicep, Dean pounds his other fist into his bunched thigh brutally, trying to build a ramp into motion on the pain. _Get up. Get up, you lazy cow. He needs you. He **needs** you._

Except it's a lie. It's a bullshit lie and Dean knows it. His dad doesn't need him. John Winchester's never needed anyone. It's Dean who needs, puling, stinking and weak.

The thought that he doesn't know how long it's been—and the fear that his dad might leave him—that gets him to his feet, lurching and unsteady. He falls almost immediately, barking his tailbone on the toilet seat and almost biting through his lip at the pain. But he struggles up a second time, clinging to first the edge of the sink and then to the doorknob, swaying on his uncertain feet. He feels another puke coming on, acid and ugly, and swallows it down thickly. He will not be sick. 

When he opens the door—clutching the door frame for support—however, John is sitting at the dinette with his feet propped up on the opposite chair, paging through his journal. The bags are scattered where they left them.

The freezing cold of uncertainty cuts through the burn of the booze and Dean's shame. "Dad?"

"Get some sleep, Dean," his father says in a dull inflectionless voice.

"But." Dean takes a step out of the bathroom, manages not to fall down, takes another. "I thought we were going…"

"Jim called. Job didn't pan out. Now get some sleep. You're in no condition to watch my back."

Dean flinches, but he looks at his dad's cell phone, in the middle of a scatter of possessions on the table. He's drunk, but he would've heard it ring. "Dad, I can—"

His dad looks at him, impatience crawling across his face and the knowledge that he'd lied right there between them like he's daring Dean to say something about it. "I _said_ get some sleep, Dean." John lets his boots fall to the floor with a crash and Dean bites back a whimper. "I'm gonna go get some breakfast, see if I can get a line on a new gig. You rest up. _Sober_ up."

Dean nods numbly, not sure if this is better or worse. His dad slams the door on the way out.

Dean kicks off his boots, peels out of his over shirt, then gives it up as a bad job and crashes face down on the nearest bed. His eyes are burning again, hotter and yet still wet. He imagines what Sammy would say at the sight of him and that just makes it worse. Dean presses his face into the pillow and goes to sleep.

*

Later, it feels like someone comes in and ruffles his hair gently…but he thinks that part was just a dream. 


End file.
